


anticipation

by swallowedsong (bookstvnerdlove)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/swallowedsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pure smut. exhibitionist!killian + coy!emma + dirty talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anticipation

She’s wearing the swinging skirt that he loves so much, the one that makes her legs look a mile long, that flutters around her legs when she walks, long purposeful strides, even when she’s just joining him at The Rabbit Hole for a drink. Sliding onto the barstool next to his, she grins when she asks, “What are we drinking tonight?”

Even though it’s always the same, dark rum, straight up.

Her fingers tap the dark wood of the bar while she waits for her drink, her back straight and stiff. She may have changed from her usual clothes, her savior uniform, but she still wears the tension of the day. It’s heavy, this weight, he finds. And she wears it well some nights and wears it with exhaustion others.  He soothes her muscles with his hands at night, fingers pressing into skin, bringing her to release. She sighs his name, Killian, sometimes. Hook, others, on nights that he marks her with his teeth, scraping along her skin, his beard on her inner thighs and her taste in his tongue.

Her eyelids flutter closed when she takes her first sip, the tension in her face draining, cheeks smoothing, the lines around her eyes softening. Sliding his hand along the soft skin between the skirt and the dark leather of her her fuck me boots, the sharp heels that have dug into his legs, his arse, while he’s fucked her into the wall, the same swinging skirt bunched around her waist.

He traces small circles with his thumb and she sighs, leaning into his space, her legs shifting open the barest inch, inviting his touch to continue. He presses harder, as a warning,a signal, he’s not really sure, he just wants her to know that this has just begun. A soft moan escapes her, lips parting as his fingers glide up, up, until they reach the soft fabric of her undergarments. Heat against his palm, he cups her, fingers resting right where he needs her, where she wants him.

He feels a buzz of excitement, the thump of his heart hard against his chest. All it would take is a shift, a flick of his fingers, just an inch, maybe not even that. All he needs to do is curl a finger around the lace and elastic, and he knows that he will find her wet, wanting.

And gods, it makes no difference where they are, no matter that the barkeep could make his way over from his covers actions with the patrons at the other end of the car. The man could be standing in front of them, eyes on his fingers, working Emma’s flesh, striking in and out as she squirms on the barstool. All this and he wouldn’t care. He’s relish in it, his heart racing at the need that fills him. A strong, hot rush. His fingers curl into her, feeling the outline of her through the fabric, not moving yet, not slipping under, and her hips shift to meet the press of flesh. It’s a small shift but it makes him want to push further, push harder.

It’s the keening noise she makes, a warning sound, not a wanting one, that stops him from proceeding, from feeling her smooth, slick skin. Eyelids flickering open she meets his gaze, pupils dilated but not fully blown with desire. She’s still too aware of her surroundings, too tense to fully soldiers into his touch. She holds his stare as she takes another sip of her drink. It mesmerizes him, the way her lashes flutter and her throat works, his eyes flickering to her lips as she licks at a drop of rum, pink tongue swiping along pink lower lip, eyes heating, teasing. Knowing.

Her voice is hoarse and low, the way that she sounds when she’s about to come, when her nails are digging into his chest and she’s marking a path along his neck with her teeth. The way she sounds when she’s riding him, hips circling until she reaches the edge. But the word that escapes her lips is, “Wait.”

He pauses and removes his hand from where it had rested, hovering over the edge of explicit. Not shifting far away from the spot that makes his mouth water in anticipation, he lets his fingers rest on her inner thigh, still under the soft fabric of her skirt, thumb stroking circles as he awaits further instructions.  She takes another sip, almost draining the tumbler, but leaving enough that bar tenderthe man behind the bar will stat away, won’t intrude on their moment. He can hear the thread of desire beneath her words, even as her tone is coy, playful, “I’m a good girl. I couldn’t do a thing like that.”

And just like that, a spark shoots along his spine and he’s thrown into her game, an utterly willing participant in the sly smile that spreads across her face.

.

She knows she’s playing a dangerous game, the sharp glint in his eyes warning her that the only way out of what she’s started is to stand up and walk away. And she considers it. She considers leaning in to grip the shining silver charms around his neck, she considers stealing a kiss from those lips, curved into smirk as he decides his next move. She considers standing up and swaying her hips as she walks, enticing him to take her home. But there’s this part of her, a reckless, shameless piece of her soul that wants to know what he’ll do next.

Leaning his head close to hers, his lips graze her ear as he murmurs, “If nobody was around, my fingers would be inside of you right now, darling.”

Her chest tightens, the air around her thickening, and she feels a burst of heat between her legs. Hips squirming on the barstool, he leans back to watch her reaction and his smirk deepens, because he’s knows that he’s right. He knows that she knows, that he’s right. She’s close to not caring about their location. They’re in such a dark corner and his body is shielding hers from the rest of the patrons in the sparsely packed bar. He could do it, he could get away with sliding his hand back up, from his fingers gliding along her, sliding into her, thrusting until she can no longer control her reaction.

He could do it and it excites her this knowledge, the spread of desire across her body, hot breath at her ear, dark words and deep voice pushing her to the edge of begging.

“Would you like that?” He asks her, teeth tugging at the soft skin of her earlobe before pressing his open mouth against her neck.

Fingers shifting along her skin, he reaches the edge of her panties again, and this time he slips the tip of his finger around the edge. “Do you even know how good you feel, Emma?”

And, god, his voice is a dark, tempting thing, rough edges to his accent, changing it from smooth and practiced, the gentleman pirate, to something more primal, more real. It sends shivers down her spine when he uses this voice in bed, when he tells her exactly what he wants to do to her, what he wants her to do to him. The same as now.

“When you’re so wet and my fingers just glide in, feeling you stretch for me, feeling your grip on me. Do you know what that does to me?”

Her heart is racing, it has been since his fingers first found her skin, but it’s the wave of lust that hits her belly that makes her weak, boneless in her seat. Her hands grip the edge of the barstool, fingers curling around the the curved wood, giving her leverage to hold steady.

“One hand on your drink, darling,” he says, “Wouldn’t want our friend behind the bar to know, now would we?”

He still hasn’t touched her yet, hasn’t reached her core where she’s beyond ready. But he’s right on the edge, sliding his knuckles along her skin, the cool metal of his rings chasing her heat, stretching the elastic before he releases it with a snap. It startles her, the sharp slap of fabric against her skin and the heel of her boot slips from it’s perch.

His hook finds her hip. “Easy, love, I’ve got you.”

She takes a deep gulping breath as she fixes herself, one hand still gripping the bar stool, the other curling around the tumbler atop the bar. She wants to take the final swig of her drink, and she eyes it, swirling the glass as she considers her next move. She’s so close to giving in, so close to taking that final step. It wouldn’t take much, just a thrust of fingers, some pressure on her clit and she’d explode.

Her hips roll up, chasing something more, and she catches the smile on his lips, curving against her skin as he leans in to brush against that sensitive spot below her ear again.

“You want it, don’t you,” he practically purrs in her ear, “I can feel it, you know. The way you’re clenching, trying to hold it in. But you’re so wet. You’re soaking.“

And she swears she feels a flutter, the unfurling of desire that comes with orgasm. A precursor to what she really wants, to the release that she now needs, that’s become more than a craving. That’s become essential.

.

She grabs his wrist to still his movements and he worries that he’s gone too far. But he can see the pink flush in her cheeks and her pupils blown so wide, her eyes consumed by the dark irises. Her breath is short and though she pulls his hand from her body, her voice is so low, so hoarse, "Follow me on a minute.”   
  
Swinging her body around, she makes her way on unsteady legs, to the back of the bar, the dimly lit hallway. He takes his minute, hand gripping his thigh, hook pressing into his skin, trying to relieve the pressure enough.

When he reaches the hallway, she pulls at his shirt, tugging him not into the bathroom, but the supply closet. “Don’t lock the door,” her words are a breathy moan and he barely murmurs a coherent response because her fingers are at the button of his pants and fishing a condom out of the top her boots and they are everywhere at once until he pushes her against the wall and he’s inside her, full to the hilt in one thrust, the power of it pushes her head back until it bangs against the wall.

Stretching out her leg against the door for leverage, her fingers grip his hips, nails digging into his skin and it sends a rush through him.

He’s already so close, his hips pressing into her, hers shifting, foot sliding against the metal door, so he’s even deeper. Her catchy breaths in his ear, he can hear the music from the jukebox playing and the crack of the pool cue against a ball. Her hand slides down and he can feel her fingers on her clit, circling and it sends him over the edge hips thrusting and thrusting until she moans his name, walls clenching around him.

His forehead touches hers and they catch their breath, her palms cupping his cheeks, lips brushing gently. “We should go,” he mutters, “Before the bartender has to come back here for something.”

She huffs out a small laugh and she nods. “Aye, aye, captain.”


End file.
